


Charmed

by TheRogueHuntress



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-02-10 16:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueHuntress/pseuds/TheRogueHuntress
Summary: A Newt Scamander/Percival Graves collection of drabbles and oneshots.





	1. Chapter 1

Newt sat on his case, holding Charlie, his niffler, by the scruff of his neck. His wand was in his hand, and he leaned his chin on his knuckles, elbow braced on knee, and yawned.

He'd been waiting to be allowed through customs for six hours now. Everything had been going absolutely fine… until the customs officer's wedding ring had disappeared. After an awkward explanation of what a niffler was, a chase around the portkey office leading to the Destruction of Property, and a more thorough inspection of Newt's case, he'd been impounded.

"Mr Scamander."

Newt jumped, and silver sparks flew out of the end of his wand. He scrambled to his feet, certain that he was blushing bright red, and then froze when he came face to face with a smirking Percival Graves.

Tucking Charlie into his pocket, he levelled his wand at the other man.

"If I was going to curse you, I wouldn't have given you the courtesy of a warning," Graves drawled.

Newt grimaced. He eyed Graves' lapels – lacking scorpion pins; his shoes – which were scuffed just slightly, likely from fieldwork; and then his eyes – which shone with hidden mirth, and a hint of impatience.

"Not Grindelwald?" Newt asked, even as he tucked his wand away. "That's er, that's jolly good."

"Something that we can agree upon," Graves said dryly. "Now, Mr Scamander, I have just been embroiled in a lengthy argument with the President over whether we should even permit you into the country. Personally, I believe allowing you to set a single foot upon American soil is a dire mistake, however the President seems to think that we owe you for your  _assistance_  last year. The agreement that we have come to is that you may enter, as long as you permit me to add a selection of charms to your suitcase to ensure that nothing escapes it," here, Graves' gaze settled upon the pocket from which Charlie was desperately trying to escape, "harmless, or not."

Newt shuffled so that he was standing between Graves and his suitcase, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What charms would they be?"

Graves arched a brow. "Do you not trust me?"

Newt winced. "Er… not really?"

At this, Graves chuckled. "Wise, quite frankly. Rest assured, Mr Scamander, that the charms will be nothing more harmful than a selection of locking spells and perimeter wards aimed at containing your creatures, and alerting me immediately should one of them escape."

With reluctance, Newt stood aside.

"The niffler?"

Newt smiled sheepishly, and placed Charlie back into the case, Dougal catching the little rascal at the bottom of the ladder. "Be good now," he murmured, catching Dougal's gaze, who blinked in acknowledgement, then disappeared.

He watched silently, noting each of the spells Graves added, determined to find a counter for all of them, should he need it.

From the mildly amused glance Graves treated him with when he was finished, he was certain that his intense observation had not been subtle. Newt was fine with that. After all, Graves wasn't exactly a hardship to look at, regardless of the spells he performed.

"Please, allow me to escort you out of here," Graves offered.

Newt picked up his case, and inclined his head. "Thank you."

They walked together out of customs, and Newt couldn't hide his guilty wince as the customs officer whose ring Charlie had acquired glared at them. Fortunately, Graves' hand, heavy on Newt's shoulder, propelled him forward before he could make a fool out of himself by apologising yet again.

"You're friends with Tina, aren't you?" Graves said as the waited for the lift.

Newt nodded.

"She's a sensible woman, most of the time," Graves said. "Busy, now she's been promoted back up to Major Investigations."

"She can handle it," Newt declared with utter confidence.

There was a faint smile upon Graves' lips when he answered, voice low. "I dare say she can."

There was a gleam in Graves' eye that made Newt shiver, and he offered the other man a tentative smile. Perhaps he'd leave the charms on his suitcase… at least while he was in America.


	2. A Lonely Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt goes on the hunt for a mythological creature.

Newt felt the throbbing pain of an impending headache in the bridge of his nose and behind his eyes, and smiled. It was impossible to get close to a Migrall without feeling psychic resonance of some kind, and this almost always manifested as a migraine, or dizziness.

He leaned against a tree trunk, the bark rough against his arm through the thin layer of his shirt. He fished a headache potion from his pocket, and swallowed it in one gulp. It muted the pain, but he could still feel a niggle of it, settled right at the back of his skull.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he called out softly. Carefully, he withdrew his sketchpad and a pencil from his pocket.

He glanced about the forest, eyes sharp for something that was out of place. Nobody knew what a Migrall looked like – every eye witness account was different. The only thing that could be agreed upon was the splitting headache, and the compulsion to leave the area that only faded when the victims had truly strayed from their original path.

Newt could feel it now, tugging him forward. His loose grasp of Occlumency helped him shield a little, but each defiant second only increased the pressure of the compulsion, and the resulting headache. He grimaced against the pain, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It didn't help.

Instead, he drew a breath, and forced himself to turn on one foot.

He came face to face with a –

Newt blinked.

There was nothing there.

He took a couple of steps forward. Hadn't he seen something? Perhaps it was this way. His head hurt less, and –

Newt growled, angrier with himself than the Migrall. After all, you couldn't blame a beast for its nature. He turned back, marching toward where he'd been before.

"You're a slippery thing, aren't you?" he said aloud. The headache was back in full force, and his mind felt fuzzy and detached. "Well, I'm not the type to give up."

Newt walked toward the pain, the psychic pressure. He swayed, dizzy and disorientated, but still he walked forward. He refused to give up, even when the blinding pain was all that he could think about.

His vision grew dark, and Newt stumbled over a root. The ground was soft, and the world was bright – too bright. He flinched away from it, and even that was painful.

Newt blinked slowly, vision blurred. The last thing he saw was a face, inhuman and gnarled, like a tree come to life. It looked strangely… sad.

* * *

Newt struggled awake, disorientated and confused.

"Calm down, Scamander. Take a breath," a low voice rumbled, one that Newt intimately recognised.

"Percival," he breathed, and sagged back down against the pillows he was laying upon.

The room slowly came into focus. He was in a hospital bed. Percival was standing at the foot of it, arms crossed, with a frown marring his face.

Newt smiled at him sheepishly. "Hello there."

Percival huffed, and strode forward. "You darn fool," he said softly.

Newt extended his hand, and Percival took it, his larger hand enveloping Newt's more delicate fingers.

"Next time you do something so stupid, take someone along that actually knows how to shield their mind." Percival squeezed his hand, his regard startlingly intent. "Promise me."

Newt's gaze skittered away, but he forced himself to meet Percival's eyes.

"I promise," he said. He was faintly embarrassed by how much he'd pushed himself just to get a glimpse of the elusive creature. After all, it wasn't as if he'd succeeded.

Then, Newt gasped as his final memory came back to him.

"Scamander?" Then, "Newt?" Percival leaned over him, sounding worried.

Newt grinned. He closed his eyes for a moment, securing the image in his mind.

"I saw it," he whispered. "I'm the first man alive to have seen a Migrall."

"Barely alive," Percival muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Newt ignored him. Instead, he thought about how the Migrall had behaved – how it had gently touched Newt's cheek – and the melancholy look upon its face.

He thought about the way it pushed all other creatures away from it, perhaps even for their own survival. A very lonely existence indeed.

"We're going to help it," Newt decided, ignoring Percival's sigh.

"Together," Percival instructed, and it was a declaration and a promise all at once.


	3. Mr Gorgeous

Newt catches his eyes from across the room, and a shiver goes up his spine. The man looking at him is a refined kind of gorgeous, just a hint of silver in his hair, chocolate brown eyes filled with intrigue, and broad shoulders Newt wants to see stripped of the smart navy suit that cover them. Without a conscious thought, Newt steps away from the conversation he's only been half listening too, Tina nattering on about her job and her work obsessed boss.

"And so non-maj vandalism is down by 3% following our drop-in clinics, and – hey, Newt, come back –"

Newt would almost feel bad if the man he was walking toward wasn't so striking and obviously equally as struck by that first look they'd exchanged. Mr Gorgeous, or so Newt cleverly nicknames him, has handed his glass of champagne off to a bemused waiter, and is stalking close, a panther in human form.

"May I have this dance?" Mr Gorgeous rumbles.

Newt is suddenly struck by the lingering shyness of his youth, and merely extends a hand. The dulcet tunes of Michael Bublé echo about the ballroom and hand in hand they walk onto the dance floor.

"Do you know the traditional waltz?"

Newt rolls his eyes. "Who doesn't?"

Mr Gorgeous' quick grin makes Newt's heart flutter. "You'd be surprised."

They fall into step, Newt narrowing his eyes when Mr Gorgeous attempts to lead, forcing them to change roles with a squeeze of his hands and a pace forward. He  _is_  taller, barely. Mr Gorgeous acquiesces with an indulgent smile, and together, they dance.

Mr Gorgeous is an excellent dancer, from his slicked back hair to his shining wingtips. Newt matches him as they spin and bites his lip to hold back a grin of delight. Mr Gorgeous' gaze settles upon it, and his eyes darken. Newt shivers again, and takes a chance, surging forward.

Closer than any traditional waltz, their torsos are pressed together, sharing body heat. Mr Gorgeous is smirking down at him, his thumb rubbing tantalising circles into Newt's shoulder. Newt tightens his grip and glances toward the door, and casually they waltz in the direction of the exit.

All of a sudden Newt can't bear it. He pulls free, smiling wildly, and clasps Mr Gorgeous' hand.

"Let's make a run for it," he suggests, and they do, laughing as they dash the short distance out of the ballroom.

"And I thought tonight was going to be so dull," Mr Gorgeous says, voice low.

Newt shoots him wicked look. "Taxi?"

"I'll get our coats," Mr Gorgeous promise. "Scamander, isn't it? Tina talks about you, sometimes."

He strides away before Newt can answer, leaving him wondering who on earth his mystery man is.

Newt has had a finger of scotch however, and the buzz is enough that he doesn't mind wondering. Any friend of Tina's is trustworthy enough, regardless. He orders a taxi from the hotel reception, and it's just pulling up as Mr Gorgeous returns, hustling him into it.

The look in his eyes tells Newt all he needs to know about their plans for the evening. Newt stutters out his address to the taxi driver before turning back to the man who seems to be overwhelming, despite the fact he's strapped himself in with the seat belt. His gaze, electric and hot, is enough that Newt can feel himself flush. Casually, or as casually as he can be, he spreads his legs, nudging Mr Gorgeous' knee with his own. Mr Gorgeous answers by settling one large hand upon Newt's thigh, just high up enough to tease, and squeezing firmly. Newt closes his eyes, breathes in, and opens them, knowing his pupils will be dilated, that his desire will be written upon his face for even the most oblivious person to read and understand.

The rest of the taxi ride is a blur, and soon they're stumbling out, onto the pavement. Newt's staying in a rented apartment because he can't afford New York real estate on a government salary, not even if it's supplemented by the stipend MACUSA gives him for basing his office in their hunting ground, or so to speak. It's enough for tonight, however.

He opens the door with shaking hands, but rests his palm flat against Mr Gorgeous' chest before he can step in.

"What's your name?" he asks. "It's only fair, seeing as you know mine."

Astonishment, then delight crosses Mr Gorgeous' face.

"Graves," he purrs. "Percival Graves."

Newt blinks. A million thoughts occur to him – he's Tina's boss, and technically Newt's in a roundabout way. But none of that matters more than the way Newt's being looked at, like he's the most beautiful creature to walk the earth.

A grin spreads across his face. "Alright, Mr Graves… would you like to come in?"


	4. Persephone and Hades!AU

Another tortured soul screamed, and Graves sighed. "Oh, shut the fuck up."

The screaming stopped, and said screamer sniffed, affronted. "I'm a dead soul enslaved by the God of the Underworld. I expected a certain ambiance. There is no ambience! Only truly awful wallpaper - what is that? It's a travesty!"

Graves looked at the wallpaper. It was tartan, a criss-cross of yellow, red, and brown.

It really was awful.

He said nothing, but merely turned to stare at Gellert, who stared back defiantly.

"If I weren't already dead, just looking at that wallpaper would be enough to give me an aneurysm."

Graves rose from his chair. The shadow behind him grew until it encompassed the entire room, black flames flickering everywhere it touched. The room shuddered, growing larger and larger until it because his true Throne Room, rather than the comfortable parlour he'd been pretending at. Pillars of black marble lined the walkway, which was an obsidian floor that failed to hide the bones that lay beneath it. The armchair Graves had sat in solidified into his throne, metal spikes curving over his head from the backrest giving him the impression of horns. The darkness was so great that the edge of the room could not be seen. Distantly, Cerberus could be heard growling, three heads not quite in harmony.

"Better?" he asked.

Gellert had faded until he was almost transparent like the soul he truly was. There was a fixed smile upon his face, and he stepped back.

"Much better, my Lord," Gellert said. "Please excuse me…"

He scarpered out of the Throne Room.

Graves was alone. Again.

He sank back into his throne and swiped a hand over his face. He did not feel guilty about scaring Gellert Grindelwald, for the man had been vile while he lived, and truly deserved to reside in hell. But he regretted his temper. Like a wildfire, when alight there was nothing that could contain it.

Enough was enough. He needed to get out of Hell.

There was a park bench that Graves often liked to frequent when he visited the Overworld. It was in Central Park, New York. He enjoyed the greenery while also being able to observe the mortals going about their fleeting lives.

Mortals had done wonderful things with their technology. A metal monstrosity towered above them all, another eyesore added to the skyline.

"What is that building?" Graves asked as someone walked by.

The woman stared at him in bewilderment. "The Empire State Building…" she said, like it was obvious. Perhaps it was, or should have been. "It was finished five years ago."

"Ah," Graves said.

It had been a while since he'd left the Underworld.

He allowed the woman to continue on, and watched the mortals busy themselves with the trivialities of life. One was minding her child, making faces at it to watch it laugh. Another was buying a hot dog, and he devoured it in three bites. Another chased a wayward pet -

Graves sat bolt upright. That was no mortal pet, and no mortal pet owner.

It was the God of Nature and Chaos, the two of them ever interlinked; Persephone, also known as Newt, more informally.

Graves swallowed as he took in Newt's beauty - golden hair in messy disarray, forest green eyes that were narrowed with concentration, pale skin dotted with freckles. Graves had not seen him in centuries - he had been but a child then.

He was a child no longer.

There was a man who would brighten up the room just by being in it.

Graves had to have him.

It took but a moment to fashion something shiny that would surely attract the niffler Newt was chasing. Sure enough, the pair headed toward him.

With a smile, Graves scooped the niffler up from the ground. Newt had skidded to a stop, eyes wide with fear.

"Lord Hades!" Newt squeaked. Then the man steeled himself, showing a core of strength that belied appearances. "That's my niffler."

"You may have him back if you will return with me to the Underworld," Graves said, striding toward him.

"Fine," Newt said immediately. He was flushed and defiant, but his gaze was sharp.

"Good," Graves said. He set a hand upon Newt's shoulder, and dropped them into Hell.

The niffler had been returned to the case Newt carried upon his person, and that left Graves and Newt standing together in the Throne Room.

Graves folded his arms and regarded the other man.

Newt was looking around, a frown creasing his brow.

Abruptly, Graves realised that perhaps the darkness was too intimidating. Newt was still a young God, one that had not yet settled and made halls of his own.

With a click of his fingers he lit the braziers, the flames instantly heating the room.

Newt did not seem to notice.

"Is it true that you've got a Cerberus down here?" he asked.

Graves blinked, surprised by the non-sequitur. "What?" he said dumbly.

A growl echoed about the room, and smile spread across Newt's face.

"You do!" he cried, delighted, and took off into the depths of the halls.

Graves ran a hand through his hair, bewildered.

Then he realised that Newt had run into the darkness to find the monster that guarded the gates of Hell.

"Shit," he swore, and ran after him.

He needn't have worried. Newt had grown a vine large enough to play tug of war against Cerberus. All three heads were snapping at each other in order play. Newt's smile was wide enough to reach across the room.

"I'm glad I came with you. He's beautiful," Newt said, head tilted to the side, an almost wistful expression upon his face.

"Yes," Graves said, looking at Newt. "He is."

Newt turned abruptly, his expression solemn. "Are you going to keep me here?"

Graves did not look away. "No," he answered simply. "But you have enchanted me, and I do hope you might stay awhile."

A small smile crossed Newt's face at this, one that was entirely for Graves. "I'll stay until the days begin to grow short of sunlight. And then I must leave, in order to help nature battle the winter months." He turned away, and spoke so quietly Graves strained to hear him. "But perhaps, after that, I'll be back."


	5. Scamp

Percival woke up as a cat; twitching tail, quivering whiskers, and sharp claws included. It wasn't the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, so he merely hopped off the bed – or tried to.

He landed in a puddle of limbs on the rug next to his bed.  _Merlin's balls_. He wriggled on the floor, trying to get onto his feet, or rather, paws. His limbs didn't seem to want to agree with him and so Percival spent the first few minutes in his new body trying to work out how it fitted together.

Eventually, Percival managed to get some semblance of control and settled on his haunches. He glanced around – still in his flat, thankfully – and blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It dawned on him that a cat's eyesight was far different from a human's. His surroundings were blurred at a distance but sharp immediately before him, the colours faded, but his eyes were able to pick out details he'd never seen before.

He sat for a whole minute staring at the whorls in the wooden floorboards of his bedroom before shaking his head, annoyed with himself.

Percival was a cat. How the hell had that happened?

The last thing he remembered was getting up to go to work, the sun already high in the sky, on what must have been the day before, because the day was dawning once more, grey light filtering through his half-open curtains.

He padded over to the door to his bedroom and faced his first true hurdle: the door handle. A shiny brass doorknob gleamed above him, taunting him as it twinkled in the early morning sunlight. Damn it all, but Percival missed opposable thumbs.

" _Alohomora_ ," he tried to say. Instead, he emitted a plaintive meow.

He promptly snapped his jaw shut, horrified. He hadn't truly expected to hear his own voice, however, he hadn't expected to hear that either. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Somehow, hearing the distinctly feline cry seemed to bring him into reality.

Percival was stuck in a cat's body and he had no idea how it had happened.

Worst of all, the damn door was still shut.

Percival yowled, crying as loudly as he could. If he was going to be stuck as a cat, he was going to be one of those bloody-minded and fiercely annoying ones. He'd yowl until his neighbours complained, until someone was forced to break into his flat and come to find him.

Only moments later, there was a click that sounded distinctively like the lock to his front door. Percival fell silent and tilted his head. That had been rather… quick.

The scent of grass and cinnamon wafted into his apartment.

Those smells were distinctive to Newt Scamander, who certainly wasn't one of his Muggle neighbours.

"Director Graves? Hello?" Scamander called. He stepped further in, mumbling to himself; "was that a cat? Sounded like one."

Percival's ears twitched. He curled his body back upon itself, tail flicking, and trotted toward his bed. He launched himself onto the bed and from there onto the top of the wardrobe and settled into a crouch, gaze fixed upon the door.

There was a rattle of doors opening and the pad of footsteps as Scamander inspected the house. "Director Graves?" he called again, voice uncertain. Finally, he stepped into the bedroom.

Percival launched himself at Scamander with a feral cry, claws digging into the lapels of his petrol peacoat.

"Bugger!" Scamander cried, staggered back. His heel caught on the rug and together they tumbled onto Percival's bed. With a growl, Percival scored his claws down Scamander's chest, hoping for blood.

It was to no avail. Percival meowed indignantly when he was abruptly collected by the scruff of his neck and removed from Scamander's person. He was held away from Scamander's body, dangling like a kitten.

"Well, you're a little devil," Scamander said, brushing his hair from his eyes as he sat up. He sounded fond. Scamander was always fond when it came to his creatures, or so Percival had noticed in the small amount of time they'd spent together.

Percival hissed.  _Little my arse_. He glared at Scamander, hoping that he was conveying his disdain at being referred to as such. Scamander seemed unbothered.

"Do you belong to Director Graves? Who'd have thought?" Scamander chuckled to himself.

It was at that moment Percival knew that he could never reveal the truth. Scamander likely already thought him a fool, missing and having abandoned his cat. If Scamander, and by proxy, the British Government found out that Percival had actually been trapped as said cat, he'd never live it down.

Scamander gathered Percival close, wrapping him neatly in his arms in such a way that no matter how much Percival squirmed he couldn't free himself without injury. Then Scamander stood, walking rapidly out of the room.

It was highly disconcerting, being bundled and transported in such a way. It was for that reason that Percival didn't object when Scamander dropped him into the suitcase he always carried about his person. He spun in midair and landed on his feet, hissing up at the entrance above.

"Look after him, Dougal," Scamander called. "He's a bit of a scamp!"

* * *

Percival had been in Scamander's case for what seemed to have been three days, judging by the cycle of light, and he thought he might just about be going crazy.

Firstly, Scamander insisted on petting him. He received a swipe of Percival's claws for that, but surprisingly, or perhaps not, Scamander was excellent at removing his hand just quickly enough to avoid a scratch.

Then, Scamander talked to him. He talked to all his creatures; telling them about his day, nattering on about the latest fascinating discovery he'd made, but he spent most of his time rambling on about 'where on earth could Director Graves possibly be?' and it drove Percival mad.  _Right here!_  he thought, but obviously couldn't say. Being trapped in a cat's body had become more and more frustrating and he'd still not worked out what on earth had happened, nor how to turn back.

The worst, however, was the food. Each day Scamander tried something different. The live mice Percival had allowed to escape, at least until the occamy had found them. The birds he'd then been offered had been dead, but Percival disliked the idea of feathers even more than fur. The fish had been slimy and unappetising and Percival had taken to eating the grass instead, giving up on food deemed edible for a cat.

He was hungry, he was angry, and he was frustrated.

So, when Scamander stepped down the ladder with what looked to be a chicken sandwich in his hand, Percival knew he had no other choice.

He meowed loudly and then began to purr, giving up on trying to keep hold of his dignity. Scamander smiled, drawing closer, and Percival wound his way around the other man's legs.

"Someone's had a change of heart," Scamander murmured. He sprawled on the ground next to Percival, stroking his hand along Percival's spine.

It did, admittedly, feel good.

Percival, however, had other things on his mind. He trampled across Scamander's lap and lunged for the sandwich, pouncing on Scamander's arm. Scamander released the sandwich in shock and Percival fell on it, nudging aside the bread and scoffing down the chicken. It was delicious – the more so for not being vegetation.

"Scamp!" Scamander cried, sounding both outraged and amused.

Percival twitched at the noise and moved so that he could glare at Scamander, keeping a beady eye in case he tried to steal his sandwich back. Thankfully, Scamander seemed to have given it up as a lost cause.

"I suppose that explains why you wouldn't eat anything else," Scamander said. "A diet of cooked chicken is hardly healthy for a cat, even one as a handsome as you."

Flattery would get him nowhere, but when Percival had finished with Scamander's dinner, he did allow the other man to stroke his ears in recompense.

Perhaps, if Scamander continued feeding him chicken, he'd allow it again.

* * *

Newt hummed to himself as he stood outside Queenie and Tina's door. Apparently, Queenie was making strudel again, in honour of the first time he'd met them.

The door was yanked open by a harried-looking Tina who ushered him inside quickly.

"Mustn't let Mrs. Esposito see you," she muttered, checking the corridor before slamming the door shut behind her.

"Ah, of course not," Newt said. He placed his case down by the door and was quite startled when Queenie rushed out of the kitchen.

"You've found him!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. There was flour all down her pinafore as if she'd been surprised into dropping her spell.

"I – what?" Newt asked, bewildered. "I found – me?"

"Director Graves," Queenie exclaimed. She glanced around until her gaze settled upon Newt's suitcase. "Why's he in your case?"

"What?" Newt said, echoed by Tina. He'd been assisting in the search for Graves of course – every wand able witch or wizard had been.

Queenie ignored him, snapping open the latches and immediately racing down the ladder. Newt followed, never having been more confused in his life.

On Newt's bed lay Scamp, curled into a ball and undoubtedly shedding black fur on his coverlet.

"Oh, Percival!" Queenie cried, and she stroked a hand across Scamp's fur.

Newt exchanged a look with Tina. She bit her lip, a frown creasing her brow.

Scamp hissed upon waking and seeing the three of them, then tilted his head, gazing straight up at Queenie.

"He woke as a cat that same morning you found him," Queenie said, a glazed look in her eyes. "And he's been trying to turn back into a human ever since. Oh – you silly thing!"

"Queenie… are you sure that's Percival Graves?" Tina said cautiously. Queenie turned on them, fire burning in her eyes.

"'Course I am, and you'd be too if you could hear him. Why, he's been trapped like this for three days and he's already complaining to me about how much Newt loves to talk."

Newt felt himself turning pink. If Queenie was right and this truly was Percival Graves, the stern man he'd only briefly met after they'd exposed Grindelwald and freed his prisoners, then Newt had embarrassed himself quite thoroughly. Graves had been missing for a few days, having been reported absent after not coming into work – the timeline fit, when he thought about it.

"Well, this'll be the proof in the pudding," Tina said, stepping forward, wand raised.

Scamp – Graves – flinched away in what seemed to be instinct, then stood proud, yellow eyes fixed upon Tina's wand.

" _Finite Incantatem_."

For a moment, nothing happened, then with a pop, a naked, furious Percival Graves appeared where Scamp had sat before.

"Merlin and Morgana," Newt muttered, certain he was going to live the rest of his life in a perpetual blush. Then, realising that ladies were present and getting an eyeful, he rushed to take off his coat and offer it to Graves.

"This damn coat," Graves grumbled but took it nonetheless. "I couldn't get a single claw through it."

"Err… protection spells woven into the wool," Newt offered, then cursed himself for opening his mouth. "Not that's, um, relevant. Uh, shall I, I mean, do you want, er, clothing?"

Graves fixed him with a flat stare.

"Yes?" Newt said. "That's a yes. Righty-ho."

Tina was snorting with laughter and even Queenie's eyes filled with mirth.

"We'll let you get dressed. Come up and join us for dinner, won't you, before you report to MACUSA?" Queenie asked.

Graves nodded stiffly. The ladies quickly ascended up the ladder.

"So," Newt began, busying himself with finding clothing that would be broad enough across Graves' shoulders and not too tight in the thigh. "Do you know why?"

"Why I got trapped as a cat?" Graves finished the question for him. There was a long pause, in which Newt wondered if Graves would even choose to tell him, even if he knew.

"I have… a theory," Graves finally admitted. Newt passed the clothes he'd managed to find across and turned his back. He tapped his foot, realised what he was doing and then clasped his hands together in order to stop himself from fidgeting.

"A theory?"

"Mmm. I may have, well, I suppose I can admit I've been trying my hand at the Animagus transformation."

That would do it. Transforming alone could lead to all sorts of nasty and unforeseen side effects.

"I tried not to admit that to myself when I was… stuck, as I knew only another could turn me back and I hardly expected someone to try," Graves continued. "Ah, well, it was a foolish idea anyway. I suppose I liked the thought of being able to transform into something small enough to escape handcuffs."

Graves had been chained to a wall in a safe house of Grindelwald's when he'd been found, barely clinging to life. Tina had been the one to find him and she'd been distraught the next time Newt had seen her, blaming herself for not noticing Grindelwald's impersonation.

"I think it's a good idea," Newt said, turning without a thought. Graves was dressed, sitting on the edge of Newt's bed and pinching the bridge of his nose. "If you want, I'll help you practise."

Graves looked up, brown eyes wary. "Yes," he murmured, half to himself. "You would, wouldn't you."

After another moment's consideration, Graves nodded decisively. "I might just take you up on that offer, Mr. Scamander," he said and offered his hand.

Newt shook it, offering a tentative smile in return. "My friends call me Newt," he said, hoping he wasn't being presumptuous. But he'd liked Graves as a cat and thought in turn, toward the end, Graves had rather liked him.

Graves arched a brow. "Friends? Very well, Newt, in that case, I believe that we shouldn't keep Ms. Goldstein's renowned strudel waiting. I dare say I'm ravenous."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Newt started up the ladder. "Fine, but this time you can get your own dinner, Scamp."

He heard Graves snort in startled amusement below him and Newt stepped out of his case smiling.


	6. Silver and Gold

Percival grimaced at the mirror. It felt as if in no time at all he'd aged from the spritely, thirty year old man he'd been before to the over forty year old middle-aged man he'd become. Flecks of silver ran through his dark hair and the corners of his eyes were creased, ominous signs of his age.

He stepped back and smoothed down the lapels of his jacket. He still looked to be as smartly dressed as always. His suit was navy, double breasted, with black fastenings. His cufflinks were made from silver, sculpted in the likeness of a Wampus in a nod to both his Ilvermorny House and his date's interest in magical creatures. Percival had opted to forgo a tie, as the date was largely informal; they were going to a speakeasy.

"Looking good," someone drawled from behind him. Percival stiffened, but recognised the voice as Queenie, Goldstein's younger sister. He fought the instinctive action of bringing down his Occlumency barriers — Queenie's ability was such that she'd likely already heard all that she could from his mind.

"Oh, I don't snoop, honey," Queenie said.

Percival bit back a snort and instead focused on attempting to smooth down his hair. He couldn't do anything about the grey at his temple, but hopefully it would go unnoticed.

"I think you look distinguished." Queenie drew her wand and tapped his skull. His hair immediately fell into order. Queenie's golden curls were always impeccable, so he wasn't surprised.

"Thank you," Percival said. He eyed his jawline critically. Perhaps he should have shaved? Too late now.

There was a knock on his office door. He turned to stare in silent panic at Queenie, who just smiled back at him.

"I think I'll make myself scarce now," she said. She waltzed out of his office, letting Newt enter before she shutting the door behind her.

"Good evening," Percival said, before biting back a wince at the formality of his statement.

Newt looked to be very handsome, even in his usual petrol blue jacket. He was wearing a tie, Percival noted to his disgruntlement, and had exchanged his khaki waistcoat for a silver and black number that fitted him snugly.

"Hello, Percival," Newt said. "How are you? Sorry if I'm a little late, I got caught up feeding the occamies."

Now that Percival knew to look for it, there was a smudge of dirt on Newt's cheek and grass stains on his jacket. He took a breath and smiled, pushing his worries to the back of his mind.

"You're not late, no need to worry." He stepped forward. "I'm looking forward to this evening."

"Me too!" Newt exclaimed, then blushed pink. "My last experience at the Blind Pig was… dubious, so to speak."

If Percival was being frank with himself, he wouldn't have chosen a speakeasy which many of the wizarding community he'd previously arrested would solicit. But Newt had spoken of the bar fondly and he doubted they'd see much trouble on a Monday evening.

"Shall we?" Percival asked. He extended an arm for Newt to grasp for Apparition.

"Yes, please," Newt said. He stepped closer, beaming. "Our adventure awaits."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading. Find me on [tumblr](https://theroguehuntress.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat, or feel free to comment!


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